Just a Game
by ooohxxmichelle
Summary: I admit defeat this time. You know it’s rare, but this time I do. Series of angst massington oneshots.
1. Just a Game

i'm trying desperately to escape this writing drought i'm going through. i can't write a decent piece to save my life, and i'm stuck in this endless limbo of angst-y shit that wants to be poetic but falls short and just becomes eta;kljtw;'j'';dsl. you see how i feel? i'm too lazy to even hit the shift, so you're stuck with this non-capitalized, incredibly boring author's note that you really probably don't even want to read.

also! this may become a series of unlinked angst oneshots. i hope you understand this (i sure as hell don't) and though (again) no names are used, i'm intending it to be massington, unless you want to interpret it otherwise, and if you do wish to do that, please do. thanks for sticking this out with me, and i'm so sorry i've become such a pointless person (:

**I. Just a Game**

You win.

I admit defeat this time. You know it's rare, but this time I do.

It's storming -- isn't that awfully coincidental? I should've known you would go out with a bang; I didn't expect sunshine and chirping birds, after all. But you've conjured up this wonderful lightning and thunder storm and all I want to do is scream because it's raining, raining, raining and I'm soaked to the bone. At least I know you're satisfied.

It's funny, almost. They're all sitting here with me, but somehow it doesn't feel as if we're attending the same funeral. They all have that disappointed, shocked, discouraged pout perched upon their waxed-for-the-occasion lips. I wear a smirk, almost, because I know you would've hated me to cry. Wouldn't you?

For once, even as the rain pours harderharderharder, I feel nothing. My dress (you know it's expensive. For you, nothing less) is drenched to the point of a sopping, dripping mess that clings messily onto my body. You would've told me to eat breakfast. But in celebration of admitting defeat, I won't eat.

You were never allowed to do this to me; yet you did it anyway. You did this purely for your own sake, and I know it. I don't **deserve** this.

I don't.

:::

The clouds are clearing out of the sky.

It's not sunny, of course, but the rain has subsided and the terror is spreading through me; I feel like you're leaving, because you sure as hell haven't left yet. The guests have all gone inside (to eat! How dare they), but not before they gave me scolding, condescending looks (_how dare you not mourn? How dare you not shed a tear?_) I can't explain why I haven't, even though I feel I should.

But you left on purpose, and I can't let you win. So I claim victory by withholding my tears. I won't cry, because you've cheated, and you know it. It's getting harder, though, as the hours pass, because hell, _it hurts._ It feels like a fire, building up in my chest, running deep into my veins, like venom, curling angrily at the tips, burning deeper and deeper.

I fight it; it's what I do best: retaliate. I watch the sky lighten, I count the breaths I take, but whatever happens, I will not **surrender**.

I will not.

:::

You deserve my coldness, you deserve every drop.

This iciness is no façade, and it will never drop. You promised me might I quote "forever", and you leave because you're afraid. It's a little drastic, I'll admit, but you've done it and I can't forgive you. You might've won the round, but I'll win the game; we both know this.

You lie in the ground now, still as stone, a crude smile riding the edges of your lifeless lips.

The sob is building up, and what flickered a small flame hours ago is now a full-blown blaze, threatening to erupt, to spill over. I won't give you the **satisfaction**.

I won't.

:::

They come slowly, plinking onto the ground like little pieces of glass (_plink, plink, plink_). I'm crying and it's all. your. fault. all. your. fault. You've won for the second time, are you happy?

They're flowing faster, and it's still your fault, because I've had to bottle them up, suppress them for so long that they've morphed into a mountain of emotions. I want to throw something at you, I want to make you feel the pain I feel, but I can't because you're gone and this is all. your. fault.

Your name escapes my lips ("Derrick"), and it surprises even me. It's throaty, it aches, and I feel like taking the word and ripping it to shreds (you deserve it, after all). You're dead and you've left me to become nothing but a mangled wreck of a human.

I'll straighten my shoulders and wipe the tears away because I don't **deserve** any of this, because I won't **surrender**, because I'll never give you the **satisfaction**; because everything is _allwrongsowrong._

I'm beginning to think that you're listening.

After all, the rain is falling again and I can hear you whisper into the empty, open sky.

**thank you, and good night.**


	2. Want

the hell with it. i'm on an angst spree and you're the unfortunate victims. this has nothing to do with the last oneshot... just... yeah. read and review, that'd be fantastic.

**II. Want**

It's too easy to explain Derrick's current state of emotion in one word. So he doesn't allow himself to say it, even think it, because he knows if he does, it's all over -- game over, she wins.

The j-word drips in his mind, oozes and flows so freely, threatening to label the ricocheting pain that creates a churning in his stomach that he laughs off and blames on the alcohol (doesn't he always.)

But even the most naïve of the naïve can tell that his grimaces are not the typical, aching stomachache. It's probably the way he watches her (fucking can't keep his eyes off of her), the way his eyes trace her figure as she shimmies her way through masses of horny teenagers.

He fights the urge to introduce his well-prepared fist to their pretty little faces only because, in some twisted, cynical way, this self-control is a mini-victory (it doesn't stop him from smashing them in his fantasies; isn't that a sick thing to fantasize about?)

He's never known why, but even as her hips sway ever-so-gracefully, even a hint of, dare he say, sexily, he isn't drawn to her body. He isn't drawn to the way she pushes herself up against the nearest boy in a way that, to any other female would be considered slutty, but seems effortlessly beautiful. He isn't drawn to her bare, smooth legs that go on for miles, accentuated by her red heels, obviously kicked on for the occasion. He always laughs off his friends' vulgar comments about her sexuality, but deep down he knows that's not what keeps drawing him back in.

It's that face; that face -- some kind of mix between a porcelain angel and 16th century European royalty -- that keeps him up at night, tossing and turning, tossing and turning. He hates that she curls her thin, peach lips into a smirking smile at whoever the flavor-of-the-week is; he hates that she lets just a sliver of her teeth show, just for a second, before restoring her normal pouted, vacant look. He doesn't study her (of course not, that would be weird) but… he groans, dropping heavily back into the black leather couch (he knows that he's secretly stalking her.)

"Hey, you're Massie? I've heard a lot about you," a linebacker-built, headed-for-the-navy senior whispers into Massie's right ear.

Why is he listening? Why can't he tear himself away? Why why why has she fucked him to the point of oblivion? There's plenty of other girls here: tall, blonde, asian… and all of them are guaranteed to be less damaging than she is. But he listens, he cocks an ear, stares off into space and just listens.

"Yeah?" she lets out a girlish giggle (he knows it's not a real laugh; he knows her laughs, after all.)

"Yeah, and it's _all_ good," the linebacker drawls the word all, which somehow elicits another trickle of laughter from Massie (this guy is about as funny as a sack of potatoes, why she was still giggling is beyond him.)

"How good?" her voice is dangerously low and it hits him where it hurts, because he wants to be the one that's getting whispered to, he wants to be the one running a tantalizing finger up her scantily clad thigh.

"Excellent," his mouth is on her neck, "How about we go upstairs and I can judge for myself?"

(The urge to vomit comes first, but as the wave of nausea passes, the fantasies of slugging the boy seep back in and suddenly…)

He doesn't hit the boy (man?) who is at least a head taller than him and fifty pounds heavier, who obviously has the upper hand.

Instead he steps in and tugs at Massie's waist, effectively spinning her away from the linebacking giant.

He looks confused for a second, then angry, and then he scoffs. It's a quiet scoff, but it's loud enough to force the feeling that he's been trying to deny all night up. Derrick is fucking jealous. Jealous, jealous, jealous even when he knows he has no right to be.

The linebacker hisses, "Better keep your bitch a little tighter on the leash there."

The word jealousy disappears; in fact all emotions disappear in the one second as Derrick winds his fist up and punches the idiot straight in the nose (it's a satisfying crack, as twisted as that may be.)

Suddenly he's being pulled away. Through the crowds of people, he can't tell exactly who is tugging his wrist, cutting his circulation… but then he feels the burn. The burn of her skin as it touches the icy skin on his wrist. He wants her to let go, he wants her to hold on, he wants, he wants, he wants…

"What the fuck was that?" it's a classic line, an obvious opener for the situation.

"A little more originality would have been appreciated," he notes snarkily, "and I believe I was saving you from the biggest douchebag of the century."

"You have no right to _save_ me." Her finger quotation marks hang in the air, but he's focused right back on her face (even in total anger he finds it irresistible; he hates that she has this power.)

"And why is that?"

"You know what you did Derrick. Hell, everyone knows what you did."

"But still," he doesn't have an answer, but he has her pinned against the couch now; it wasn't intentional, after all she was the one pulling him here, but she's against the leather and he can feel her minty breath cool against his face.

"But still what? You have to stop doing this, you have to stop…" she trails off as his mouth settles into a warm spot against her neck, his tongue playing with the burning flesh, "You have to _stop._"

He still doesn't understand (her convincing skills aren't up to par, and he won't even try to comprehend what she wants him to _stop._)

His hand drops from her wrist, and as he notes the stinging red marks, he brings his hand onto her bare chest (he wants to pull the damn dress off of her now, but he manages to only touch the tanned flesh that shows from the v-neck of her stupid dress.) His fingers are drawing circles, circles, circles, and as he continues to trace circles, he hears her breath hitch, her jaw snap shut, and her lips press tightly into a thin line.

He has her exactly where he wants.

"What the…" a brighter light switches on and fucking Kemp Hurley stands in the doorway, smirking and gaping, "Sorry, man."

But it's over and they both know it. Massie springs away from him, her breath still ragged, "Stay away from me."

His eyes are begging _Why? You need me. You'll never be satisfied with those assholes out there, so why don't you give up? Why don't you admit defeat now and just come back?_

But his voice won't come and his mouth won't move.

So he just watches as she slips away, hurriedly, back into the hordes of partygoers. The blackness is almost a comforting blanket, warm and consoling.

The laughs come, short and forced, but somehow flowing naturally. It's hysterical, suddenly, and he doesn't know why.

He wants, he wants, he wants -- but he can never have.

**elfin.**


End file.
